


Midwinter Whispers

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Advice, Betrayal, Courtly Love, Crushes, Dishonor, First Love, Friendship, Gen, Gossip, Honor, Kissing, Loyalty, Midwinter, Midwinter Kisses, Mother and Son, Poetry, Politics, Romance, apology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-09-28 02:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: For squires, Midwinter means kisses and gossip.





	1. Midwinter Whispers

Midwinter Whispers

“Would you care for a rest, Your Highness?” Roald asked Shinkokami in the relative quiet between songs. He thought he saw poinsettias blooming in her cheeks. To him, it felt as if they danced under the evergreen garlands strewn across the vaulting ballroom ceiling in honor of Midwinter for hours because it was still easier for them to dance together than to attempt to engage in protracted conversation with someone present to smooth the initial awkwardness they both seemed to experience in opening up to their betrothed. 

“That would be pleasant.” Shinkokami favored him with a small, polite smile that showed none of her pearly teeth and allowed him to usher her into a crimson-cushioned chair. 

Roald was about to sink into the velvet softness of the cushion on the seat beside Shinkokami when she flicked her ever-present fan across her flushing face. “It’s gotten rather warm in here, hasn’t it, Your Highness?” 

“Yes, it has.” Roald’s skin did indeed feel hot and beaded with sweat beneath his finery. He couldn’t puzzle out whether his intended was flirting with him, embarrassed, or both. Determined to be gallant despite his own discomfiture, he offered, “Would a drink refresh Your Highness? I believe we have wine, cider, and eggnog out tonight.” 

“I’ve never tasted eggnog before.” Shinkokami’s fan darted downward so he could admire the almond shape of her eyes. “I’d love to sample it if Your Highness would be so kind as to get me a glass.” 

Privately Roald thought she might be happier never tasting eggnog—the viscous drink always clung to his throat, threatening to choke him. However, he feared such a comment might be discourteous so he inclined his head graciously. “It would be my pleasure to do that for you, Your Highness.” 

Excused from her presence, he circled the dance floor filled with couples swirling to the renewed swelling of music and joined the line around the drinks table. He didn’t normally indulge in the vulgarity of eavesdropping but he made an exception when he heard two young ladies discussing a friend. 

“Cleon of Kennan was kissing that girl squire in the hallway after last night’s party.” Lady Helene of Linden didn’t use Keladry of Mindelan’s name either because she wasn’t familiar with it or because she found the subject of female knights too distasteful. 

“At least it was the girl squire.” Lady Marian of Heathercove, Lady Helene’s companion, giggled, and Roald was grateful for the sound that covered his sharp intake of breath at the notion of Cleon—betrothed already just like Roald—violating his own honor and Kel’s with kisses. “That means he likes girls. It would be so awkward for dear Ermelian if he was one of those fellows who doesn’t like girls.” 

“Speaking of dear Ermelian”—Lady Helene shot her companion a pointed look that implied she believed the other lady was treating Ermelian’s plight with inappropriate levity—“should we warn her that her betrothed is betraying her with another woman?” 

“No, what good would it do to tell her? It’ll only distress her, and she’ll have to marry him anyway because his family’s in the Book of Gold despite not having a copper to their name.” Lady Marian gave a dismissive wave of her hand, but Roald couldn’t breathe a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t inform Lady Ermelian of Cleon’s disloyalty when he was confident somebody else would be loose-tongued enough to do so. 

The two ladies snatched up glasses of Tyran white wine that would doubtlessly make them even more careless in their conversation, and when they stepped away from the table, Roald grabbed the eggnog Shinkokami had requested. His ears flaming from what he had overheard, Roald returned to his betrothed, who accepted the eggnog with a perfectly proper expression of gratitude. 

He watched her face as she drank but when it remained a blank scroll, he inquired, “What do you think?” 

“It’s very creamy”—Shinkokami paused delicately, and Roald understood that as a sign of refined revulsion—“and rich.” 

“So rich as to be cloying?” suggested Roald, and when she gazed at him with a twinkle in her eyes, he found the courage to continue. “Cider is my favorite winter drink. I could bring you a sample if you’d like.” 

“I’d enjoy sampling your favorite winter drink.” The twinkle still shone in Shinkokami’s eyes, lighting a warm blaze in Roald’s heart that reminded him of curling beside a cackling fire on a cold night. 

Roald departed for the drinks table a second time where he discovered that Cleon and Hel were again the topic of gossip—this time from more spiteful sources. 

“The Girl was seen kissing that impoverished oaf of Kennan bold as brass in a corridor,” the aged Lady Arabella of Linshart remarked cantankerously to her equally ancient husband, Lord Simon, and Roald reflected that unfortunately age didn’t always bring wisdom or a mellowing temper. Some people would just be hateful to the grave. 

“She spent years living unchaperoned among a wild pack of boys.” Lord Simon spoke as if he had a stick shoved somewhere unmentionable. “We always knew she had to be a—“ 

“Good evening, Lord Simon,” Roald interrupted before he had to suffer through hearing what insulting term for women Kel was, inclining his head to the slightest degree permitted by politeness. “Lady Arabella.” 

“Your Highness.” Lord Simon bowed as his pinched-faced wife curtsied. “An unexpected pleasure to meet you here.” 

Lord Simon seemed flustered at almost being caught saying a crude word in the presence of royalty, and Roald wondered for the hundredth time why people said disgusting things that would only embarrass themselves and others if broadly circulated. He chose a cup of cider for Shinkokami and another for himself before beating a hasty retreat from the drinks table where he had heard nothing pleasant all evening. 

When he brought the cider to Shinkokami, she praised the spices in it, and he wished that he had the nerve to discover if they lingered on her lips at the end of the ball when he escorted her back to her quarters. Instead he confined his kiss to her fingers when they parted.


	2. Motherly Guidance

Motherly Guidance

Roald stared into the shifting shapes in the flickering flames of the dwindling fire in the hearth of the royal quarters’ parlor. It was late enough—closer to dawn than midnight—that he should probably have returned to his room adjoining Lord Imrah’s but his knightmaster hadn’t imposed a specific curfew upon him so he wasn’t technically in violation of any orders. Roald lived in the gray, free spaces of technicalities and legalities, and, at the moment, it was soothing to watch the fire slowly slip into orange embers while he ruminated over whether to confront Cleon about the rumored Midwinter kiss with Kel…

It would be easier not to mention it to Cleon at all—to not risk angering a friend. Yet it would be wrong for him not to address Cleon’s transgression if Cleon was in wrong, and he couldn’t allow Cleon to sully Kel’s honor without reminding Cloen how much he was ruining her reputation. For years, he had overheard raging arguments between Papa and some of his oldest friends, Sir Alanna and Lord Raoul, whenever those friends couldn’t understand the decisions Papa had to make as king. He had seen the chasms grow between them even if Papa pretended not to notice the rifts that never seemed to close completely after any reconciliation. 

That had given Roald the terrible conviction that friendship was incompatible with kingship, but because the weight of being alone all the time was too crushing to bear, he had inevitably forged friendships that made being fair and honorable more complicated. He was, he thought as he pinched his forehead, repeating his father’s mistakes in a hopeless intergenerational echo. 

“You seem troubled, Roald.” Mama, the only person still in the parlor with him after the rest of the family had drifted off to their cozy beds, seemed serene as the moon brushing out her long, midnight black hair. The strokes of her brush were so rhythmic as to be relaxing Roald realized as he focused on them for the first time and remembered how as a child he had loved to gaze up at his mother when she brushed out her hair that was so often praised as the most beautiful in the world. 

“If you had a friend who might have done something dishonorable but you can’t be certain, how would you handle that, Mama?” Roald asked as it suddenly occurred to him that Mama had been able to remain close as sisters with Buri despite any disagreements that flared between them over the years. She was, he decided, the perfect person to seek advice from, and it was astounding the idea hadn’t entered his mind earlier. He could only conclude that the late hour had made his wits slow as a wagon stuck in mud. 

“I’d ask my friend for the truth. I wouldn’t assume the friend was guilty until I learned the truth from my friend’s mouth.” Mama’s smooth tone could make even the most awkward situation sound straightforward, and Roald wished he could emulate her poise in every encounter instead of being trapped in his own polite stiffness. “Once I knew the truth, I would proceed as necessary, confronting or supporting my friend as circumstances and honor required.” 

“This is a sensitive matter.” Roald scraped at his cuticles in a nervous gesture he had never been able to eradicate even with Master Oakbridge harping at him since he was a toddler. “I wouldn’t want to cause my friend offense by bringing it up, but I also don’t want to ignore the matter if my friend is in the wrong. How do I know whether I ought to remain silent or ask my friend at the risk of causing offense?” 

“You’ll know you must confront your friend if ignoring the potential misconduct is harder than asking about it.” Mama’s eyes were uncomfortably keen as they fixed on Roald. “All this does raise the question of how you heard of your friend’s potential misconduct if your friend didn’t choose to confide in you, son.” 

“My friends’s indiscretion may have been sufficient to stir up several distasteful rumors.” Roald squirmed in his sofa cushions, acutely aware that his mother disapproved of what she deemed his distressing tendency to heed rumors. He hoped she would somehow be oblivious to his obvious signals of guilt when he couldn’t control his discomfiture at her stern gaze. 

“Engaging in gossip is unbecoming of royalty or indeed anyone who intends to practice common courtesy.” Mama’s lips dropped into a frown that matched the one in her crinkling forehead. “I wish you would stop crediting every cruel word any rumormonger spreads about your family or friends.” 

“I didn’t engage in gossip.” Roald felt stung enough by his mother’s reprimand to be defensive. “I just don’t want to discard a rumor that might be true only because it’s cruel to a friend. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?” 

“No, but nor would it be fair to act as if you doubt your friend’s integrity and believe every rumor that casts doubt on your friend’s honor.” Mama paused in her brushing to shake her head sharply, and Roald regretted dragging fairness into the discussion when he saw the dangerous tightening of her cheek muscles. 

“I couldn’t help overhearing this rumor, Mama.” Roald’s eyes widened in earnest protest. “Both times it was discussed right in front of me at tonight’s ball. I can’t be blamed for overhearing private conversations that took place in public.” 

“You can if you made no effort to avoid overhearing those conversations.” Mama’s eyebrows arched. “Did you make such an effort, son?” 

“No, Mama.” Chastened by this admission, Roald bowed his head. “I’ll make an effort not to overhear next time, but since I can’t forget what I heard tonight, what should I do?” 

“What I told you earlier.” Mama was unrelenting despite Roald’s repentance. “Ask your friend for the truth, and then act based on the truth, not wild rumor. In the future, try not to listen to rumors that only create confusion.” 

“Yes, Mama.” Roald kept his head humbly lowered even though his neck was starting to ache. Maintaining a respectful posture was an important part of not making a scolding worse. “I’ll follow your good guidance going forward.” 

“You should get some sleep now.” There was a hint of gentleness in Mama’s voice that assured Roald it was safe to glance up at her. “Everything will seem much clearer once you’ve gotten some rest.” 

“Good night, Mama.” Roald rose and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.” 

“I correct you because I love you and know you can be better—not for my sake but for your own.” Mama cupped Roald’s chin for a heartbeat before releasing it. “Sleep well, Roald.”


	3. In the Name of Friendship

In the Name of Friendship

“I heard rumors that you kissed Kel after the ball two nights ago,” Roald said to Cleon, making an effort to keep his voice low even though the quiet in the next room suggested that Sir Inness was out—perhaps enjoying the holiday with family or friends—because he didn’t want Sir Inness to overhear that Cleon might have taken liberties with Kel if Sir Inness was half as wicked a swordsman as Cleon claimed. Roald didn’t wish to see Cleon carved like a Midwinter goose no matter what Cleon might believe when this awkward conversation was over. “Did you?” 

“I gave Kel a kiss for Midwinter luck.” Cleon raised his hands in a parody of surrender, the cloth he was using to polish his knightmaster’s armor dripping to the floor where they sat before he scooped it up again. “The world didn’t end.” 

“The world didn’t end but you dishonored Kel.” Roald was grateful that replacing a fraying string on Lord Imrah’s bow gave him an excuse to keep his head lowered and his fingers busy. “People were saying that she had to be doing inappropriate and immodest things because she was the only girl training with all of us boys.” 

“People have been saying nasty things about Kel’s honor for years if you’re only opening up your ears now.” Cleon shrugged, annoyingly unconcerned about the aspersions against Kel’s virtue, and Roald felt a flash of anger. It was one thing for Cleon to sully his own honor without consideration, but to indifferently drag Kel’s name through the mud was another, more infuriating matter. “She’s never given a fig about nasty rumors. Why in the name of Mithros should she start caring now?” 

“The rumors weren’t true in the past.” Roald channeled his frustration into tightening his knightmaster’s bowstring. “Now you’re doing all you can to make them true. I’m Kel’s friend so I happen to care about that. You can’t marry Kel, Cleon. Remember that before you hurt yourself and her by getting too entangled.” 

“I’m betrothed to a wealthy heiress, and I can’t break that engagement without ruining my fief and getting disowned by my loving mother who already cut off my sister for joining the Riders.” Cleon scowled as he scrubbed forcefully at a spot of armor that seemed perfectly shiny to Roald. “No need to remind me of the marriage trap hovering over me constantly. I feel its steel teeth closing around me every cursed day. A kiss is a far cry from marriage, though. All Kel and I did was kiss, and we may never even do that again since she didn’t seem to like it very much if the way she’s avoiding me is any indication.” 

“You shouldn’t kiss Kel again.” Roald fixed his eyes on Cleon’s, praying to any listening and benevolently disposed deity that he looked as serious as he felt. “As you said, you’re betrothed. It dishonors you, Kel, and Lady Ermelian when you kiss Kel.” 

“If I followed your advice, I’d be saving all my kisses for a lady I’ve never met.” Cleon tossed the cloth across the room, where it bounced against the wall before falling to the floor. 

“Just because you haven’t met Lady Ermelian yet doesn’t mean you should dishonor her.” Roald stopped tightening his knightmaster’s bowstring before he snapped it. 

“If I followed your example,” Cleon continued as if Roald hadn’t spoken, his face cruel rather than good-natured for the first time since Roald had met him. “I wouldn’t even kiss my betrothed. I’d be so bloodless that I wouldn’t have any fun or passion just like you. You only care I kissed Kel because you’re jealous I had the nerve to do that when you still have cold feet when it comes to kissing your princess.” 

“You’re hurt, and saying things you don’t mean in your temper.” Roald rose to his feet with all the dignity he could muster when Cleon’s words made his ears burn as if they’d been slapped. He clutched Lord Imrah’s bow in fists, hoping Cleon wouldn’t see his fingers trembling as he strode toward the door. “I’ll ignore your comment in the name of our friendship and take my leave now.” 

“Are we friends?” Cleon’s expression was still hard as northern granite. “Your behavior makes it difficult to notice, Your Highness.” 

The way Cleon pronounced Roald’s rank like an insult made Roald ache to retort that he was Kel’s and Cleon’s friend or he wouldn’t have been bothered by the vicious rumors about them circulating the court. He bit back the pointed comment that could only make the conversation worse, telling himself that if Cleon could never have Kel at least he could have the last word in this argument about her. Roald could give him that much in the name of the friendship Cleon questioned even if that made him every bit as bloodless as Cleon accused him of being with Princess Shinkokami. He would be consistent in his bloodlessness as he was in everything else.


	4. Cold Sculptures

Cold Sculptures 

Roald felt bloodless as Cleon had called him walking through the wintry palace gardens with his father that afternoon, the December sun brightly reflecting off the ice sculptures that lined the cobblestone pathways like sentries but not but not strongly enough to melt the ice sculptures or warm Roald’s chilled cheeks. Studying the sculptures shimmering in the sunlight, Roald found himself contemplating how similar to the ice sculptures he was. Like them, he had been carved carefully to be perfect, but with that perfection came a coldness and stiffness that bordered on untouchability. 

“Do you think I’m too cold and stiff, Papa?” Roald finally forced himself to ask over the crunching of his boots on the snowy path. 

“Only when you forget to bundle up for the winter weather.” Papa’s eyes twinkled but Roald stifled a sigh at his father’s teasing which seemed to treat him as more a boy than a man. 

“I’m serious, Papa,” Roald said when he was confident that he could keep the irritation from invading his tone. There was nothing so vexing to him as as not being taken seriously. 

“I know.” Papa patted him on the back. “However, I’d never see you smile if I didn’t sometimes make jokes when you were serious.” 

“I smile.” Roald felt even more annoyed that his father would believe he never smiled or that making jokes at his expense was the ideal method to encourage him to smile when the last thing he wanted to do was smile. “I’m just serious now because I’m troubled.” 

“You do look troubled.” Papa cast him a considering glance. “What about?” 

“I’m worried that I’m too stiff”—Roald was certain that he must have sounded too stiff but he didn’t know how else to be when he felt so pressured to succeed with Shinkokami, making her fall in love with him not just for their sake but for all of Tortall—“and Princess Shinkokami won’t ever like me because of that.” 

“I think she likes you as well as can be expected when you’ve just met.” Papa tugged at his beard. “She may not understand how you feel about her, though. She may be wondering if you’ll ever like her.” 

“I’m trying to be very proper with her, Papa.” Roald frowned. The Yamani, he had been told on innumerable occasions, regarded public and powerful displays of emotion as humiliations, and he had no intention of shaming his future wife. Besides he had come to the embarrassing understanding that she had been about to marry another man in the Yamani Islands before her uncle the emperor had summarily canceled the wedding, shipping her to Tortall under orders to marry him, a stranger in what to her was a foreign land. He couldn’t blame her if she was guarded with him, hiding her heart behind her fluttering fan. He wouldn’t ever be able to fault her even if she never loved him no matter how courteous he tried to be with her. He would just be sad and lonely for the rest of his life even as he did his duty by her and the kingdom. He was royalty, after all, and to him that was starting to mean that he had been born to live a lonely life surrounded by a thousand courtiers with smile false as their promises. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass her with a public display of emotion.” 

“Not all displays of emotion have to be public.” Papa shot him a pointed look. “Have you ever kissed her, Roald?” 

“Yes.” Roald’s face was no longer cold but burning. He definitely wasn’t bloodless despite what Cleon had claimed because he could feel the blood rushing through his veins and pounded a frantic tattoo against his eardrums. “On the fingers and cheeks as is proper.” 

“Try to kiss her on the lips.” Papa’s suggestion only increased Roald’s humiliation. Papa, he had learned though disconcerting court gossip over the years, had been a charming flirt with the ladies when he was heir to the throne. He could talk about kisses on the lips with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes, but Roald wasn’t like his father. He was reserved, never acting grandly enough to attract attention and thinking much before speaking little. His father lived by whim and will, forever challenging the boundaries of propriety, while Roald longed for tranquility, imprisoned by the constant fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. As a prince or king, Papa had never worried about creating a scandal. That meant he couldn’t relate to Roald’s crippling aversion to causing scandal—to being the uncomfortable focus of derisive gossip and judgment. “Orchestrate a romantic moment with her—perhaps during a private stroll through the gardens—and then do what comes naturally.” 

Roald was terrified that his first attempt at kissing would be too sloppy in some way, earning him Princess Shinkokami’s revulsion rather than affection. It was safer, he believed, to be the timid suitor rather than the overeager, clumsy one, but he didn’t want to confide any more of his doubts in his father. Clearing his throat, he stumbled out, “I wouldn’t want to dishonor her by taking her on a walk unchaperoned. I shouldn’t risk either or both of us becoming a subject of scandal, Papa.” 

“Relax.” Papa reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “I wasn’t talking about anything scandalous. I was merely suggesting that if your chaperone allows you a moment alone with Princess Shinkokami, you might take advantage of it.” 

“I don’t want to take advantage of her.” Roald bit his lip, beginning to imagine how he could coax her under the palace cherry blossom tree for a first kiss. Then he wouldn’t have any more nights like last night when he had wondered how her lips would have tasted and had wished for the courage to kiss her. “I’ll stop if she seems unhappy. I’d never want to force her to do something that didn’t want to do.” 

“I expected nothing less from you, son, but I think she’ll want you to kiss her.” Papa patted Roald’s back again. “You’ve a charm under your seriousness she must have noticed.” 

“If you say so,” Roald answered dubiously, believing that he was far more awkward than he was charming but reluctant to expose any further uncertainties and insecurities to his father who was so different from him.


	5. Eternal Present

Eternal Present

Midwinter was long over, and the Royal Progress was about to begin before Roald found the courage to kiss Shinko beneath the cherry blossom tree known throughout the palace as the kissing tree. Even though he had spent days planning and agonizing over how he would warm up to kissing his betrothed—how he would charm her with flowers and a line of Yamani poetry carved into the tree’s trunk over their names etched in bark—he had feared that she would reject him and his attempts at affection. 

Instead she had gazed deeply into his eyes and let him kiss her. She hadn’t pulled away, and, afraid of pushing his luck or seeming ungallantly overeager, he had ended the kiss within beats of his racing heart. As quick as the kiss had been, it had somehow seemed to stretch into an infinity where time no longer mattered. In that sublime plane, the future was forever out of reach, and the past unchangeable, so neither one was to be worried about. When he locked lips with Shinko, his world shrank to her. Consequences weren’t to be considered; only she was. Rumors and scandal didn’t mean anything; only she did. 

After he kissed Shinko, he finally understood what had motivated Cleon to court the ruin of his and Kel’s reputation by giving Kel a Midwinter kiss. Sometimes you were so drawn to someone that you couldn’t focus on someone else. When you couldn’t take your eyes off someone, your vision was as narrowed as that of a plowhorse with blinders. He couldn’t decide whether that was a wonderful or a terrible thing, but he did resolve to seek Cleon, who had refused to talk to him any more than minimal manners required since their argument about kissing Kel, to close the rift between them. 

When he knocked on Cleon’s door, Cleon opened it swiftly, a friendly grin on his face that faded as soon as he recognized that his visitor was Roald. Rather than stepping back to allow Roald to enter, Cleon shifted so that his frame blocked Roald’s path into the room. 

“May I enter?” Roald asked. He hated verging on the rudeness of inviting himself into another’s chambers, but he wasn’t about to hold a private conversation in a corridor where any passing person might overhear. 

“Come in.” Cleon moved away from the door just enough so that Roald could slip by him, his expression implying that Roald had already worn out his welcome. 

“Thank you.” Roald inclined his head, and, as he did so noticed the bags Cleon was packing. Seizing the opportunity to try to open an awkward apology on a pleasant note, he asked, “Are you leaving with your knightmaster soon?” 

“Tomorrow at dawn.” Cleon’s words made it clear that he had, as usual, left his packing for the last minute. Perhaps his irritation was more at himself than at Roald, Roald thought before dismissing the idea as too wildly optimistic. 

“I see. Then it’s good I’ll have the chance to speak with you before you go.” Roald hesitated, trying to ignore Cleon’s look that suggested he would have been happier if Roald had avoided this opportunity to speak with him, and went on, hoping that he didn’t sound as uncomfortable as he felt, “Forgive me for overstepping my bounds when I presumed to advise you on how you should conduct your relationship with Kel after you gave her a Midwinter kiss. I won’t interfere with your relationship with Kel—whatever it is—again regardless of what court gossip may say. I’ll respect whatever you and Kel decide to do.” 

“I forgive you.” A teasing grin was starting to curl the edges of Cleon’s mouth. “How did you come to this realization? You finally kissed Princess Shinkokami, didn’t you?” 

Roald believed it would be unchivalrous to kiss a lady and tell, so he said, “I just came to imagine that when you kissed Kel, it must have felt timeless to you. You must not have cared about the gossip or the consequences as long as you could kiss her, because the future wouldn’t matter when you were in that eternal present of kissing her.” 

“Clearly I’m not allowed to ask how you came to imagine this.” Cleon wrinkled his nose but Roald understood that he had his friend and the lame jokes he hadn’t missed until they were gone back because of his apology. “I’ll content myself with saying that I thought you were a cold-headed realist, not a warm-hearted romantic.” 

“I’m not a romantic.” Flushing, Roald shuffled his feet that suddenly felt too big for his body. “I’m just trying to understand how you could be.” 

“I’m not a romantic.” Cleon chuckled, and Roald smiled at hearing that amused and amusing sound for the first time in weeks. “I only like to shower Kel in flowery nicknames to make other men jealous because none can rival my poetry.” 

“Neal can rival your poetry.” Roald was pleased with the wit of his response even if it earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Cleon, who apparently couldn’t appreciate the humor of jokes that didn’t come from himself. “Remember the verses he used to compose in Lady Uline’s honor?” 

“Lady Uline would’ve been more offended than honored if Neal was brave enough to share those verses with her.” Cleon snorted, drawing a laugh from Roald, who found it a relief to at last release some of the tension Midwinter romances had brought him. Finally he was beginning to find the joy everyone always insisted was present in courtly love. Perhaps he would even be inspired to attempt his own poetry that he would promptly burn before anyone could read and mock him for it. Like Cleon and Neal, he was no poet. Unlike them, he recognized that and was determined to spare himself the embarrassment of sharing his clumsy rhymes. Happiness, he decided, would be composing a poem in homage to Shinko, and then watching as flames consumed it, imagining how warm he would feel if her head was leaning against his shoulder and they were staring into the flames together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of the story. Thank you so much for reading. If you would enjoy a more detailed account of Roald's first kiss with Shinko, please check out my story "Kissing Tree" to read that full scene.


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